


Secrets We Hold

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Explicit Consent, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Scent Kink, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Male Character, part-incubus Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Jaskier wishes that his parents would have told him that he was part incubus. It doesn't change much once he finds out, but it would have been nice. The only thing made more difficult by it is his rather unfortunate attraction to one Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 28
Kudos: 1216





	Secrets We Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all wanted more part-incubus Jaskier, and I really wanted to write trans Geralt, so this happened. I used the language that I'm comfortable with (specifically "cunt" and "cock") as a trans dude so like, fair warning if that's not your jam. 
> 
> I've also been vaguely enamoured with the idea that some witchers are trans and none of them really thought about it until Triss came along and was like "no Ciri is a girl what the fuck". Like, think about it — none of them had any idea what a period is and they were like "yeah eat this, it will make you strong and witchery" but Triss didn't want to let her because it would erase her secondary sex characteristics, which is pretty weak tbh. It's basically a hormone blocker and testosterone rolled into one and used to season their food. So yeah, trans witchers.
> 
> My next fic is going to be pretty long. It's almost entirely finished but I'll be uploading a chapter a day — two max — and I'm currently on chapter 12 so. That's happening. After _that_ I have a plan for _another_ higher vampire Jaskier AU. I have an almost embarrassing amount of content planned so stay tuned.
> 
> Also I haven't been able to listen to anything but Heartwork since it came out — the Used is still so good, who said that was allowed? It's a fantastic album and some of the songs have had direct influences on my work lately so if you wanna check that out, I recommend it.

Some things are bound to be difficult, even impossible to discuss with loved ones, no matter how close they are. Everyone has secrets and reasons for keeping them, and keeping them from someone doesn’t necessarily mean they are less trustworthy or less important. For some, it’s just something they’ve never talked about, and that’s fine, he tells himself. It is fine. 

Take Geralt, for example. Jaskier hadn’t known until after the fight with the selkiemore, when he’d gotten the other man into the bath and seen him naked for the first time. He’ll admit that he’d assumed Geralt had a cock, proportionately huge compared to the hulking mass of the rest of him. So, seeing the cunt between his legs was, admittedly, a surprise — but not really a big deal. Geralt hadn’t seemed embarrassed by it, didn’t make any indication of wanting a conversation, and it wasn’t any of Jaskier’s business.

Despite what people will say about him, he _does_ know when to mind his own business — sometimes, anyway.

Over the time he’d gotten to know the witcher he’d slowly found out that until leaving Kaer Morhen, it was just something he’d assumed was normal. After all, all witchers are boys. Whatever herbs and mutagens they’re given make sure they don’t develop into women, give them muscle and sharp edges and stubble and things that just scream _masculinity_. Some boys didn’t have cocks and some did, but since you can’t use a cock to fight a monster it was just something that was never talked about.

Then, Geralt had entered the world and very quickly learned that people like him were _not_ the norm. It didn’t bother him, really — after all, people will always say terrible things about witchers if given the chance, so what’s one more? And he knows he’s a man, and anyone who looks at him with his clothes on wouldn’t dare question it, so why should this one part of him change that? So no, he isn’t self-conscious, he doesn’t really care, but it does make things a little difficult when he needs some release. 

Thinking about _Geralt_ and _needing release_ in the same sentence is not good for Jaskier’s nerves. If the other man would only say yes, Jaskier would give him _everything_. 

He isn’t trying to be a braggart or anything, but false modesty is a terrible trait so he doesn’t bother with that either. He knows he’s good in bed — even if he didn’t have a very long list of past lovers who would be all too happy to give their recommendation, well, it’s in his blood. That’s where the whole ‘secrets kept from those closest to him’ thing comes into play.

His great-grandfather was an incubus. There’s really no getting around that. He is mostly human but, well, not entirely. Not quite a monster — not enough for Geralt to be able to tell with his witcher powers or his magic necklace or whatever it is he uses to find monsters — but monster _enough_. His parents had, somewhat selfishly, avoided telling him for as long as they could. He assumes that they just hoped there wouldn’t be enough of it in him to make a difference but really, it’s one eighth. That’s a pretty fucking significant amount of incubus blood, if you ask him — and of course no one had, which is precisely the _problem_.

They _should_ have told him when he’d come of age. Instead they’d allowed him to go out into the world without knowing what he was, what he could _do_ , what he would _need_. He, of course, being a red-blooded young man for once free of his parents’ influence, neglected to tell them about any of his sexual encounters in his letters. Who in their right mind would? But apparently, since he didn’t tell them about it, they assumed he wasn’t _doing_ it, which is pretty fucking stupid if you ask him.

People acted like he was giving them the best sex of their lives but as far as he was aware he was just having normal sex. He wasn’t doing anything special. It made him feel good, and when they felt good he felt it too. Jaskier could use his mouth for hours and never touch himself and still leave satisfied, so when people gushed about what an attentive lover he was he just assumed they were being polite. After all, surely it was just this way for everyone?

Then he met a certain witcher and spent a lot more time on the road and a lot less time in others’ beds, and he started feeling… unwell, the longer he went without. At first he thought he simply wasn’t used to life on the road, but it was more than that, and eventually he realised that something was wrong. Still, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what. 

That is, he couldn’t figure it out until he got his hands on a book about succubi and incubi. He doesn’t even know why he picked it up, except that he enjoys sex and could use the knowledge either to tease Geralt or to make a song — or to make a song with which to tease Geralt. The idea of a sex monster was honestly kind of funny to him — until he actually read the book.

After that, it wasn’t so funny anymore.

They were close enough to Oxenfurt that he made an excuse about needing to go take care of some things, he’d surely meet up with Geralt again soon — and then he was furiously scribbling a letter to his parents. He needed _answers_ , and staying in Oxenfurt meant having a fixed address to which they could write back.

All things considered, finding out in a letter that he isn’t entirely human is not a very nice experience. He’d rather be gut-punched by Geralt again. And thinking of the witcher, he’d known he’d needed a plan to deal with, well, all of this around him. 

‘Plan’ is a strong word, of course, but the sentiment is still there.

He ended up deciding that if Geralt didn’t say anything by now then either he knew and didn’t care, or he didn’t know so he didn’t need to. Either was fine with Jaskier. He would simply grace more beds when they made their way into towns and cities, and if an angry husband or father or what-have-you had a problem with it well, he was pretty sure Geralt wouldn’t let him die.

Probably.

In the end, he decided that it wasn’t a big deal, really. The only reason it was a problem in the first place was that he didn’t know about it. Now that he knows, he can keep it in mind. It’s not much different than needing to eat or sleep, he reasons. And for a while, that works out for him. Life isn’t any different except he knows now. Things continue as they always have.

He doesn’t seem to get any older after his twenties but that’s not really a problem. It just means he won’t have to worry about wrinkles and grey hair and aching joints and getting slow. He won’t have to worry about not being able to follow Geralt when he gets too old. When he hits his fifties, he’s still by Geralt’s side (a certain incident or two not being acknowledged, of course). 

If the witcher has noticed that he hasn’t gotten any older, he doesn’t say anything. Whether he just doesn’t know how humans are supposed to work, or assumes Jaskier is something else and doesn’t care, or even knows he’s part incubus and doesn’t care — Jaskier can’t seem to find it in him to bring it up. It works out for him, so it doesn’t need to be given any mind.

The older he gets, though, the more he learns about himself, about what being part incubus _means_. Namely, he starts to realise that he is acutely affected by the arousal of those around him. If he focuses, he can smell it, like cloves and warm mead and pine. It assaults his senses if he gets too close, or if he himself is _wanting_. Usually he can brush it off but sometimes it’s so fucking _intense_ that it makes his knees go weak.

Of course, the only time it gets _really_ unbearable is when it’s _Geralt_. 

Jaskier is no fool when it comes to love — he knows what he feels, what he has _been_ feeling. He has been in love with the witcher since he was young, since before he knew what he _was_. The love and lust he feels for the other man is intense to the point of being almost unbearable. He assumes that this is why Geralt’s arousal affects him so much _more_ than anyone else’s ever has.

Gods, the _smell_ of him. When he goes too long without taking care of his needs — whether by his own hand or in a brothel — he smells divine, like a harvest feast, rich with spices. Not _literally_ , of course — he doesn’t actually smell like a meal, or Jaskier would have tried sticking his dick in a roast; but he smells like a meal for Jaskier’s incubus side, and he has no better way to describe _that_ type of hunger.

And _oh_ , how he _hungers_. If Geralt would let him — if he would say but a single _word_ , Jaskier would _devour_ him. He would give the witcher everything he wants, everything he _deserves_. He would use every trick he’s learned over the years and he wouldn’t stop until Geralt knew just how much he was worth.

Unfortunately, that is never going to happen, he’s sure. Part of it is that the other man has simply never taken him up on his flirtations, never reacted in a way to indicate any sort of interest in the bard in that way. And that’s fine, really — he doesn’t _need_ to be Geralt’s type, he can be his friend and it can be more than enough.

Well, for seven eighths of him, at least.

Part of his problem is that he knows his want of Geralt is affecting the other man. He can’t help it — he’s pretty sure he’s projecting. He’s tried to tone it down but witchers are very sensitive to magic and monsters and such, so even if he tries to keep his attraction and arousal to himself he knows it affects the other man.

See, when he lets it go too far, when he finds himself stirring in his breeches and finds his mouth watering with thoughts of having his head squeezed by thick, muscled witcher thighs, Geralt starts reacting. Obviously Jaskier isn’t just shouting about it or anything, but he’s part incubus for Melitele’s sake. He knows that the lust he feels can be projected outward — it’s a way for incubi to attract lovers, apparently. He has tried, but he just doesn’t know how to shut it off.

The witcher will tense, and his nostrils will flare ever so slightly, and then the scent of his arousal hits Jaskier like a fucking trebuchet. Every time one’s arousal spikes, so will the other’s, and it’s fucking _miserable_. He can’t deal with the heady scent of Geralt’s arousal when he’s already trying so hard to keep his own in check. It’s not _fair_. 

So usually he goes off, says he’s going to be taking a bath or looking for berries or any number of things that are an obvious excuse for him to get away from the other man and get himself under control until they can go into a town and he can take his fill of someone else. It’s only polite, after all, and after years, _decades_ of longing, he thinks that he’s got it about as controlled as he could possibly hope for.

Of course, just when he thinks he has a handle on the situation, the powers that be decide that he doesn’t deserve any fucking peace. The area they’re passing through happens to be particularly horrible in their treatment of witchers. Geralt has been run out of every single town very quickly, and of course the bard isn’t going to fucking stay if he can’t! In the first two or three towns Jaskier had been _furious_ at the way they tried to treat _his_ witcher. And, okay, maybe starting a fight wasn’t the best idea when they were trying to convince people to let them stay but at this point Jaskier didn’t _want_ to stay if this was how they treated guests. Still, Geralt had dragged him out and he decided that, fine, no fighting for the other man’s honour.

Turns out revenge-fucking the mayor’s wife in the next town wasn’t the best idea, either, which — okay, he _knew_ it was going to piss the mayor off, that was kind of the _point_. So what if he’d put a little more of his power into satisfying her in ways her husband would surely never be able to? So what if he’d encouraged her to be just a little too loud? He was feeling angry and petty and hungry and again, they weren’t going to be welcome there _anyway_. 

Honestly, he’d even waited for Geralt to leave so that the witcher wouldn’t somehow be blamed for it. He’d managed to escape the town on his own, and lost the angry men following him in the surrounding woods, so he didn’t know why Geralt was so _annoyed_ with him.

Still, after that he agreed to stop retaliating against these awful people for their horrid mistreatment of his best friend in the whole world, because said best friend had asked him to. The whole thing makes him pretty miserable but he’s willing to try his best. 

They end up deciding to move on and just pass the next few towns. Sometimes the best thing to do is just start over, and if they get far enough out then people will start being the normal level of terrible again, rather than this enhanced awfulness they’ve got going on here. Jaskier got a pretty decent ‘meal’ out of the mayor’s wife, so he’ll manage for a while.

Only, they have to travel for a lot longer than they’d expected to find a place that they can rent a room, and it’s clear that both of them are getting frustrated. One thing about his heritage that drives Jaskier fucking _mad_ is that, simply put, masturbation doesn’t cut it. And even if it could, it’s not really easy when he’s out roughing it with someone who could practically hear someone cough halfway across the fucking Continent. He’s starting to get _antsy_ , is his point.

And Geralt! Jaskier doesn’t know when the last time the witcher got laid was but it needs to fucking happen because frankly he cannot fucking handle this. He makes more excuses to leave the camp, to try to give the man some privacy, but even that doesn’t work. He comes back to the smell of Geralt’s release and then a fresh spike of arousal hits him and then they do that fucking feedback loop of affecting one another only, he’s pretty sure Geralt isn’t even consciously aware of it. 

If there were anything he could _do_ about it he would have by now. He’s barely getting by on the — the energy, or whatever it is he takes — the dregs of it that linger after Geralt gets himself off.

Jaskier is increasingly miserable, and hoping they’ll just find somewhere soon that the both of them can get laid and fucking get this over with, when surprisingly Geralt snaps. 

“For fuck’s sake, how is it not enough for you!?” he growls and honestly Jaskier has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about but he’s feeling pretty moody himself so he’s absolutely not having this.

“How is _what_ not enough?” he demands.

Geralt isn’t looking at him when he answers. “You keep running off to jerk yourself. Any more and your cock will fall off. So stop _smelling_ like that!”

“Okay,” Jaskier snaps, eyes narrowed in irritation and confusion. “There’s a lot to unpack here, so let’s start with ‘fuck you’ and make our way up from there. No, don’t you interrupt me! I have not _one time_ wanked off while we’ve been stuck out here. I have been giving _you_ space so that _you_ can take care of _your_ needs and as soon as I come back _you_ are the one who starts _stirring_ again! And I do not smell any worse than you! We both bathe the same amount out here!”

Geralt gapes at him, which quickly melts into a glare — probably because it’s familiar, Jaskier thinks. “You smell like _lust_ , Jaskier,” he says. “If you aren’t using that time wisely that’s your fault, I shouldn’t have to suffer with you.”

Wait.

“You can—” Jaskier is sure his face has never been redder. “You mean you could smell it all this time, and you still didn’t _know_?”

“Know _what_?”

Jaskier can’t help but squirm, just a little. “This is fucking embarrassing, you know,” he complains. “Mortifying, even. Gods.”

“Out with it, Jaskier.”

He huffs, glares at the witcher, then looks away again. “I, ah. Can’t really get any relief by myself. Erm, it’s… something to do with being part incubus?”

The bard still doesn’t look at his friend, he won’t, but he can feel the other man’s stare on him and he is honestly not the biggest fan. He’s always hated awkward silences, so he starts rambling, as he is wont to do.

“I didn’t know until after we’d met, you know — my parents didn’t think it a good idea to _tell me_. Of course, it was my mother’s mother’s father who was the incubus so… I suppose since I’m the first son to come out of that mess, they had simply hoped that they wouldn’t need to? I don’t know, I can’t really track their logic on that one, it was a terrible and selfish decision but the whole incubus thing hasn’t really affected my life very much so I thought I wouldn’t really have to deal with it but _you!_ Ugh, you have no idea what you smell like, Geralt — or maybe you do, fuck, is that how it is for you?”

“You could smell it too?” Geralt says, and he sounds his own version of mortified.

“Yes, and if I’d known you were _aware_ of it I would have talked to you about it, obviously. It’s never been — usually I can just ignore it, but when it’s _you_...” He sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… affect you.”

“What do you mean, when it’s me?” Geralt asks. He sounds almost soft, confused. 

The bard resolutely does not look at his friend. “I suppose there’s no hiding it, is there?” he jokes, though the sad tone in his voice makes it fall flat. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve had… amorous feelings for you for an embarrassingly long time, now. I don’t expect anything from you, of course. I _like_ being your friend. I just also, well, happen to be kind of head-over-heels in love with you. I just didn’t mean to, you know, force it on you like that.”

Jaskier finally looks at Geralt. Of all the expressions he’d expected, _calculating_ was not one of them, but he doesn’t always know what to expect with Geralt anyway. “Jaskier,” he says slowly, “how exactly do you think you affected me?”

The bard groans, then winces at the small spike of lust he can feel from the other side of their campsite. “You’re the witcher, here,” he says morosely. “Please don’t make me explain the whole incubus thing, this is already embarrassing enough.”

Geralt sits on his knees in front of his friend, who immediately looks somewhere to the left. He really doesn’t need that mental image right now, his nerves simply cannot handle it. 

And then that hand, rough texture but gentle touch, is on his cheek and it’s impossible _not_ to look at him. His eyes are captivating, and Jaskier really has to double down and focus on what the witcher is actually _saying_. 

“It’s nothing to do with what you are,” says the witcher; “it’s _who_ you are.”

Jaskier knows his eyes are wide and hopeful but he doesn’t want to let himself believe that he’s hearing right, doesn’t want to read into it because he doesn’t think he could survive that heartbreak. “You don’t mean that,” he says, sounding unsure even to his own ears.

“If I didn’t care for you, you would know it, bard,” says Geralt. That hand is still on Jaskier’s cheek and it feels like his heart is going to sprout wings and fly out of his fucking chest.

“I need you to be sure,” the bard insists against his better judgment. If he ruins this now he’ll never forgive himself, but if he goes too far and ruins everything later it will be even worse. “I don’t know that I can allow myself to have this if we’re just going to go back to how things were. It would _break_ me.”

“I’m sure.”

Jaskier still hesitates. He doesn’t want to make Geralt uncomfortable, doesn’t want him to feel like he has to say something he doesn’t _mean_ , but he has to be _sure_. “Would you, do you think—”

“I love you too, Jaskier.”

_Oh._

It feels like he’s _floating_. Jaskier has had many, _many_ kisses throughout his life, and in much nicer places, but none of them have been as good as this. None of them have carried the weight this one does. 

He can’t help but breathe in, scent the air around him. The force of it makes him shudder — if he’d known he had _that_ kind of effect on the other man, he would have said something _years_ ago. He can’t stop the noise that tears its way out of him. This is everything he has ever wanted, and he is _shaking_ with how much he suddenly _needs_ this. 

“While I would normally insist we do this on a real bed, at least, I feel like I might die if I wait another moment to have you,” he confesses breathlessly. 

“There are worse ways to go,” the witcher teases, but he’s already lifting his tunic over his head and as wonderful as that sight is, Jaskier simply won’t stand for it. 

“Let me,” he murmurs, placing his hands over Geralt’s. “Let me take _care_ of you.” He’s absolutely thrilled when he’s actually indulged, and takes no small amount of pleasure in untying _his_ witcher’s trousers. 

He doesn’t push them off immediately. Why would he rush, rather than savour this incredible body piece by piece? He runs his fingers up and down strong arms, feather-light touches that he gleefully notes make the witcher shiver ever so slightly. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the wide chest in front of him. 

There’s so much he wants to say, to do, but he doesn’t even know where to start. He hasn’t felt this overwhelmed in a long time, and it’s sort of thrilling. “Where can I touch you, love?”

Geralt’s breath stutters at _that_ endearment and oh, that is _dangerous_ information for Jaskier to have. Now he’s _never_ going to stop telling the other man just how much he means to him. “Anywhere,” the witcher finally says. 

“You’ll tell me if something isn’t alright?” Jaskier prompts. It’s framed as a question but it is a demand; he will not budge on this.

“Yes,” says Geralt. Jaskier beams at him. 

“You smell wonderful,” the bard says, unable to keep himself from deeply breathing in the other’s scent. His incubus nature is a definite influence but he’s never wanted to scent anyone _this_ badly before; no, that’s all Geralt, and it’s the human part of him that’s to blame for _that_. 

“Didn’t know you like onions so much,” the witcher teases, drawing an almost drunk-sounding laugh from his lover. Still, if he’s able to joke, Jaskier clearly is not doing enough. 

And really he has had an embarrassing number of fantasies about that chest over their long friendship, so forgive him for indulging in them now that he has a chance. He’s always wondered how sensitive the witcher’s nipples would be, and it turns out the answer to that is _very_. 

Well, they aren’t sensitive in the sense that a feather-light touch could get him off; it actually takes a bit of roughness, hard sucks and sharp bites, but the way he responds to it is fucking _gorgeous_. The bard bites across that well-muscled chest like a fucking _animal_ , desperate to make his mark. He needs anyone who looks at this man to know that he is _Jaskier’s_. 

It should be strange — he’s never been possessive like this before. It’s certainly not an incubus thing — one of the first things he’d learned about them was how flighty they are by nature. If anything, he has a genetic predisposition against commitment. But, well, if you cut him into eight pieces, only one of them would be an incubus. He is _mostly_ human, and the human in him _wants_. 

There will be time to ponder his parentage and how one side affects the other _later_. Right now he has the most gorgeous man on the Continent right in front of him, his for the taking. 

When he feels that the other man is suitably marked — when he’s smugly satisfied with his work — he finally starts to push down the other man’s trousers, leaving him in just his smallclothes. He breathes in deep — how could he not? Nothing has ever smelled so fucking _enticing_ to him before. It makes a sharp bolt of arousal shoot down through his stomach and he shudders at the feeling. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls impatiently.

The bard chuckles lowly, blows on the wet patch soaking through Geralt’s smalls. “Oh, darling, we’ve _plenty_ of time. And you smell so _wonderful_. Allow me a moment to… indulge.” 

If Geralt was going to argue — and knowing him he probably was, in some way — Jaskier will never know. He’s too busy licking at that wet spot, giving the both of them just a small taste of what’s to come. He wonders if anyone has ever taken the time to really take this wonderful man apart and put him back together, to take care of him like he deserves. Someone fucking better have, but knowing Geralt’s very unfortunate history, he gets the sinking feeling that he will be the first. 

Well, if that’s the case, he has a lot of work ahead of him, and he cannot _wait_ to get started. Without any further preamble, he finally gets his witcher fully naked and, oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is! 

“I could just look at you forever,” Jaskier sighs.

Geralt actually growls at him. “Don’t you _dare_.”

The bard chuckles and says, “I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you for long even if I tried. Or my mouth, for that matter.”

He scratches down Geralt’s sides with his nails just to feel him shiver again. While the other man doesn’t talk about his youth much, tries to forget about what they did to him — and who could blame him? — Jaskier does know a little about what the training and mutations have done for him. His high pain tolerance means that Jaskier is going to have to be a little rougher than he normally would. He only hopes that if he’s too rough, Geralt will tell him. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he actually hurt his lover instead of pleasuring him.

Rather than diving straight for his prize, as a lesser man might, Jaskier still takes his time. After all, what point is there in skipping the appetizer in favour of the main course? If he’s sticking with the metaphor of Geralt being a feast (and of course he is, it’s a bloody good one) he absolutely does not want this meal to end any time soon. Nine courses at least, that’s his preference. So, he dips his tongue into the witcher’s navel, trails open mouthed kisses down, down, without any hint of a rush. 

“That’s it,” he coos, not even trying to hide the satisfied smirk as he licks a languid trail back up to Geralt’s navel. “You’re being so patient, so _good_ for me.” 

_Fuck_ , the other man’s arousal hits him so hard he suddenly can’t _breathe_. Apparently the witcher likes being praised a good bit more than he lets on. Jaskier is all too happy to work with that.

“Such a good boy,” he continues, bringing two fingers to his lover’s wet slit. “You’re so wet, dearest, all for me. Let me taste you, you gorgeous man.”

“Please,” Geralt says, and _that_ surprisingly really, _really_ does something for Jaskier. 

“So polite, how could I say no?” He situates himself between Geralt’s legs and allows himself one more deep breath. “I’ve dreamed of being between your lovely thighs for _ages_ ,” he says dreamily, before dragging his tongue up the length of Geralt’s slit. “Oh, sweetheart, you taste even better than you smell.”

The bard focuses on lapping the wetness from his lover’s outer lips before pushing his tongue between them. He could smother to death right here and his last words would be ‘thank you’. Fuck, it’s so _hot_ , the man’s cunt is like a furnace. 

His clit is more of a cock, really — like the rest of him, it’s an impressive size. He thinks it’s at least an inch, but he’s not going to fucking measure the thing when he could be putting it in his mouth. He wouldn’t be able to resist when it juts out like that, red and wet and _gorgeous_. Jaskier sucks it into his mouth gladly, only pulling back to tongue at the head, lick under the hood. The noises Geralt is making are muffled by his thighs but that doesn’t keep Jaskier from _hearing_ them, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful in his life.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Geralt is coming, hot and wet, muscles contracting as Jaskier keeps eating him out through the aftershocks. Apparently Geralt expects him to stop, but how could he? Instead he carefully licks him clean, just as he had before he started. Fuck, this is incredible, he could write a thousand sonnets about it if Geralt wouldn’t absolutely kill him. 

Also, he finds he doesn’t want to share this particular image with anyone.

“You did so wonderfully, darling, such a good boy for me,” Jaskier says, propping his chin up on Geralt’s thigh and looking at him with shining eyes. 

“You did all the work,” Geralt mumbles.

The bard grins. “You know what they say — do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

Geralt snorts, rolls his eyes. 

“Are you ready for more, my heart?” Jaskier asks him mischievously. 

“You’re going to _kill me_ ,” the witcher grumbles in return.

“There are worse ways to go,” the bard answers easily, echoing the witcher’s earlier words.


End file.
